Page 86 of Hollow

“Everyone wears them,” he explained. “Not just for anonymity. It’s tradition.”

Now, as we approach the entrance, I see he wasn’t exaggerating. The crowd is a sea of masks—some elaborate like carnival creations, others simple and stark. But all transforming their wearers into something wilder, more dangerous.

We bypass the line stretching down the block, the bouncers recognizing Damiano and immediately stepping aside. Inside, the transformation is even more dramatic. The main room I glimpsed briefly during my previous visit has been completely redesigned. The velvet couches are pushed against the walls, creating a vast open space in the center where bodies move to a rhythm that feels more ritual than dance. Huge speakers pump out a beat that’s all drums and bass, vibrating through the floor and into my bones.

The lighting is blood-red, casting everyone in shades of crimson and shadow. Smoke machinescreate a haze that makes the whole scene dreamlike, figures appearing and disappearing through the mist like spirits. Above it all, aerialists in minimal black clothing perform on silks hanging from the ceiling, their bodies twisting into impossible shapes.

“Jesus,” I breathe, overwhelmed by the sensory assault.

Damiano’s arm tightens around my waist. “Still think you can handle it?”

I nod, unable to tear my eyes away from the spectacle. “It’s just... a lot.”

“And this is only the beginning,” Damiano says, scanning the crowd. “Let’s find Flint first.”

The bar area spans one entire wall of the space, crowded with masked figures clamoring for drinks. And there’s Flint, pouring and mixing behind the counter, never missing a beat despite the chaos. He’s wearing a simple black leather mask, making his eyes appear even more intense against the white streak in his hair.

He spots us approaching and gives a curt nod, then says something to a blue-haired bartender beside him before stepping away for a brief moment.

“You made it,” he says when he reaches us, his voice raised to be heard over the music. “How long have you been here?”

“Just arrived,” Damiano answers.

Flint observes me, taking in the outfit, the mask. “Good choice,” he says. Then, to both of us, he says, “Remember, stay together. I can’t leave the bar much tonight—I’m understaffed, and Viktor’s watching.”

“Speaking of,” Damiano says, “have you seen him?”

“By the stage with Locke,” Flint says, already glancing back at the bar where customers are lining up. “Mari’s handling the other end if you want drinks. Gotta get back.”

“We’ll be careful,” I promise.

“You better be.” He briefly squeezes my hand before he turns and slips back behind the bar.

Damiano guides me toward the area where a bartender with electric blue hair is serving drinks. “Let’s get something to take the edge off.”

We order whiskeys, and I take the moment to really study Damiano. His mask is similar to Flint’s but with subtle botanical designs etched into the leather. It makes him look dangerous in a way that sends heat pooling inside me.

This is crazy. I came here to play my part, to show that we have nothing to hide, but now all I can think about is how hot they both look in their masks.

I glance back at Flint, now working the bar with focused intensity. Even from here, I can see how different he is in this setting—alert, commanding, exuding that dangerous energy that draws people to him. Several customers lean too far over the bar as they order, trying to get closer.

“Don’t worry,” Damiano says, noting my gaze. “He’s used to it. People always want what they can’t have.”

I take a sip of my whiskey, grateful for something to focus on besides my jealousy. The liquor burns pleasantly, warming me from the inside out.

“Viktor at three o’clock,” Damiano says casually. “By the stage with Locke.”

I resist the urge to turn immediately, instead taking another sip of my drink before glancing casually toward the raised platform at the far end of the room. Sure enough, Viktor stands there, deep in conversation with a sharply dressed man I assume is Locke, one of The Vault’s owners. Viktor’s mask is bone white, a stark contrast to his all-black outfit.

“Has he seen us?” I ask.

Damiano’s hand finds my nape, his touch reassuring. “Not yet. But he will.”

“Good,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “That’s the point, right? Let him see us just enjoying ourselves, not acting suspicious.”

“Enjoying ourselves in this place is a stretch,” Damiano mutters, but there’s a hint of amusement in his tone. “Come on. Let’s mingle. Less conspicuous than huddling in a corner all night.”

We weave through the crowd, Damiano’s hand a constant presence on me—at my waist, my shoulder, the small of my back. His touch keeps me anchored as we push deeper into the heart of the party.

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